


Parallel Lines Always Meet: A Warehouse 13 Anthology

by Racethewind_10



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1915563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Racethewind_10/pseuds/Racethewind_10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This should be considered an unrelated anthology.  All the stories contained herein will be Warehouse 13, most will be Bering & Wells centric, though there may be one or two that focus on another character. </p><p>Each chapter is a completed fic.</p><p>Essentially, I have started writing a lot of comment fic on tumblr. A LOT OF IT. And because most of that fic is written for a specific screen cap, or gif or work of fanart, most of it is short and unrelated to anything else I’ve done. Rather than posting the rather ridiculous number of these things as individual fics, I’m going to go ahead and collate them here.  Some will be set in the show universe, MANY will not be. I will try to specify when it’s an AU. </p><p>I am also well aware parallel lines by definition do not meet. Its a quote, and one I've always thought fitting for Myka & HG's relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

Consider this a placeholder 


	2. What Moments Remain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myka remembers the little moments. Angst. Set after the season 3 finale. Canon show verse.

The memories still ambush her. Even months later when she finally manages to pick up the pieces of her heart and (mostly) go on functioning; when she’s not living in that terrible moment of silent goodbyes and explosions over and over again, every second of every day.

Myka knows she will never forget the feeling of Helena’s lips against her own, or the silky texture of the smaller woman’s skin beneath her fingertips. Not the sound of Helena’s voice unstrung in passion or merely gentled with exhaustion, nor the color of her eyes in the moonlight and the feel of her hair beneath Myka’s cheek. Those memories are a part of Myka now, as integral to her life as the blood in her veins, and just as painful when exposed. But at least they are expected. Those memories she can almost control. 

Almost. 

The ones that hurt the most though, that blindside her when she least expects it… those are the little moments: a challenging look in a wrestling coach’s office, a knowing grin over a tracking device, a shaky breath taken in relief while finally shelving a long lost artifact.  These and so many others slip into Myka’s traitorous mind in the quiet heartbeats between waking and sleep, or when she opens a door and the sunlight briefly eclipses her sight, or when she walks down an empty hallway to an empty room.

Perhaps they aren’t the moments others would remember, but they are the ones engraved forever onto Myka’s heart. They were the moments time seemed to stand still and it was just the two of them, alone, in their own reality; drawn together like planets orbiting a sun, subjected to a gravitational force neither seemed to have any desire to fight. What Myka remembers are the moments that force was the strongest, when she could almost see the attraction drawing them closer. 

But their sun exploded, loosing their tether and now Myka spins through time and space alone, with no direction and only the tattered strings of her memories to tell her where she has been. 

 

Fin


	3. Come To Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just one of a series of “possible” scenarios for what we didn’t get to see (AND DAMN WELL SHOULD HAVE) at the end of episode 4x01. Fluff and romance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This originated as a comment fic for one of fuckyeahpikacha’s manips. Hence the teddy bear. Set immediately post episode 4x01 canon show verse.

 Myka wanted, so desperately, to feel the joy that should have been theirs. They had saved the Warehouse. Hell, the _world_ for all they knew. Myka had read the manual, she knew (most) of the dangers the Warehouse kept safely out of reach of the world and she could easily guess the havoc the wanton destruction of those objects could unleash.

And then there was the miracle that was Helena. Helena who was alive and _whole_ and whom Artie seemed to have made a complete about-face in his attitude toward. 

It should have been a victory.  _The_ victory.

But as Myka walked into her room at Leena’s B & B, the customary adrenaline high and giddy excitement of saving the day seemed far away and out of reach, as if there was a barrier around her heart she could not break.  

A barrier made of grief…and fear. 

They had still lost Steve.

Even Sykes, for all the pain he caused…Myka couldn’t get the image of the scared, sorry little boy out of her head. There was more though. Some part of Myka Bering, the part that was always analyzing, observing and cataloging the world around her knew that they were missing something. A variable was absent from the equation. It had been  _too_  easy.

And the last time Myka had missed something, Sam was taken from her. 

Now she had found love again; a love that made even what she and Sam had shared pale in comparison. Now they had been granted a second (or maybe third) chance, and there was a part of the agent that was  _utterly_  terrified this reprieve was only temporary.

And if that were the case…

In the deepest, darkest part of her heart, Myka Bering did not believe that she would survive losing Helena yet again. 

Lost in those troubled thoughts, the tall woman wasn’t really aware of picking up the items that had been tossed at the end of her bed…had it only been the day before? Myka could no longer remember. Time seemed to have stretched and twisted all out of its accustomed shape, leaving her unsure of the direction in which she moved.  

She cradled the worn teddy bear and an even more worn copy of  _The Time Machine_ _,_ some part of her hoping the familiar talismans would quiet the conflicting emotions swirling inside her. The bear and novel had become Myka’s touchstones over the last year: small, tangible comforts when the nights felt too empty and the nightmares threatened and the person she longed to hold was far away, her amazing mind kept prisoner in photons and magnetic fields.

She was still holding them when the soft, deliberate scuff of a shoe against wood floors signaled another’s arrival.  Myka’s heart leaped in her chest and she was just about to turn when slender arms slid around her and a familiar form pressed against her back. 

Myka’s knees nearly went weak. Every nerve ending  _sang_  with Helena’s proximity, as if Myka had just taken a hit of some incredibly potent drug.

The fear, the doubt, the last hours, the last  _year_  was suddenly nothing but a distant memory. 

She moved to replace her bear and book on the bed and return the embrace when something brought her up short. 

They were both still wearing their clothing from the day, but Helena also still sported her purple gloves. Myka blinked.  Whatever she had been intending to say suddenly fled her mind to make way for curiosity. 

“Uh, Helena? Why are you still wearing your gloves?” As she spoke, Myka completed her earlier task, gently laying her treasures aside and turning in Helena’s careful hold to look at the other woman. Still waiting for an answer, the taller agent tried to ignore the racing beat of her heart and just how damned badly she wanted to wrap her arms around Helena and never let go. 

Helena’s own expression, however, appeared equally puzzled. 

Removing her hands from Myka’s waist, the smaller woman frowned slightly at the gloves, turning her hands back and forth as it to examine them in greater detail. 

“I’m not quite sure to be honest. Pete pulled me aside when we arrived and said something about ‘no glove no love.’ I did feel as though perhaps he was having a laugh, but he looked so very earnest about it…” Helena trailed off, one eyebrow raised in expectation of further explanation. 

Myka pressed her lips together. Hard. Then bit her lower lip. It was too much though. Somewhere between wanting to kill Pete or hug him for the subtle sign of his acceptance of Helena, Myka just shook her head and gently removed the purple gloves, entwining her fingers with Helena’s when at last they were free of the last, thin barrier to their skin.

“Let’s just say he was having some fun at your expense.” 

 

“Ah. I thought as much,” Helena said gently. Her smile, however, was fond and Myka found herself echoing it. 

“If it helps, I think it means he’s decided he likes you.”

Helena raised one elegant eyebrow. Her dark eyes were so very warm in the soft light of the room and suddenly Myka didn’t want to be talking about Pete. She didn’t want to be talking at all. 

“Helena,” she whispered softly, fingers squeezing gently. There was so much she wanted to say to the other woman; so much that  _needed_  to be said. And yet now that the moment was here, Myka’s tongue failed her.

Helena too, appeared to be struggling, but the author summoned an inner strength from somewhere and whispered at last, “I missed you, so _very_ much.”  Her voice was so soft that the words barely reached Myka’s ears. Their impact on her heart, however, was that of a hammer blow that fractured the last of her hesitation. 

With a choked sound that she refused to call a sob, Myka gave in to her early desire and threw her arms around Helena, clinging to her fiercely. The embrace was returned instantly and Helena’s hands slipped under Myka’s jacket to clutch at the taller woman’s back. 

 

“I missed you too,” Myka finally managed, pressing her cheek against Helena’s. 

 

No tears were shed, but both were breathing raggedly, holding on to each other as if to a life raft in a storm. Eyes closed, they stood silently together, refusing to let any separation come between them, the unspoken fear that the merest opportunity might allow them to be torn apart lurking like a shadow in both their hearts.   Had she been able to summon rationality at all, Myka would have understood the fear to be ridiculous, but she was not rational. There had been too much pain and regret and wondering ‘if only’ to be rational and Myka was beyond giving a damn

She could stay here until the world burned down around her for all she cared.  

It was Helena who broke first. Taking a slow breath the artificer straightened, hands moving to stroke Myka’s arms through the warm leather of her jacket. Her eyes were bright with tears un-spilled but her smile was warm.  “Come to bed,” Helena said softly, one hand moving to take Myka’s and squeeze gently in encouragement. 

Myka’s own eyes stung and she blinked furiously, nodding and returning the grasp before only reluctantly letting go.

 

* * *

 

As they quietly readied themselves for bed, Myka’s earlier fear crept from its dark corner in her mind and whispered its cold poison once again in her ear.  When she finally slipped into bed and opened her arms to Helena once again, however, the warmth and exquisite pleasure of the smaller woman’s body pressed against her own sent it fleeing. 

It would return, Myka knew. Just as she knew she had to share those fears with Helena.

But that was for tomorrow. For when the sun was up and bathing their world in the kind of brightness that made all such fears less menacing. 

For now was the time for Myka to pull the covers over them and wrap her arms around Helena.  It was a time to whisper, “I love you,” and brush her lips across Helena’s in a tender kiss. Time to gasp softly as that kiss was returned, deeper and fiercer, until they were lost in the liquid warmth of the other’s mouth. Time for their bodies to speak the ancient language of need and lust, love and longing in ways mere words could never express.  Time to drift off to sleep with Helena’s head resting over Myka’s heart, at peace at last. 

And though Myka knew that no matter  _what_  happened - whether they had been granted a day, a year or a lifetime - it would  _never_  be enough time with Helena, before she drifted off, the agent vowed once again to not waste a single  _second_  of it. 

 

 Fin


	4. Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Show canon universe, set in the unspecified future. Just a bit of melancholy fluff. Myka and Helena remember.

The autumn breeze had a bite to it and Myka instinctively tugged her overcoat tighter around her shoulders. The cemetery was quiet, only the rustle of the wind in the turning leaves above her head punctuated the comforting stillness. If there were spirits that haunted this place, they were not interested in vengeance. Myka didn’t need to search the gravestones to know where familiar names lay. Too many of those cold marble markers held carved reminders of friends passed from her life; sometimes peacefully, sometimes not. 

The Warehouse had taken much from Myka Bering. 

The dark turn of her thoughts, however, was interrupted by the appearance of a grande-sized coffee cup in her field of vision, a tiny wisp of steam curling from the hole in the lid. 

Reaching out a gloved hand, the agent took the coffee and turned to smile at the woman handing it to her. The acceptance and the smile were as automatic as breathing for her, because if the Warehouse had demanded much from Myka, it had also given her much in return. 

Carefully cradling her own cup of tea, Helena settled on the cold stone bench next to Myka, making sure to press herself close. She wrapped one slender, wool-clad arm around Myka’s waist, effectively eliminating any space between their bodies. 

Myka wriggled contentedly, turning to press a kiss against her wife’s temple, just where the silver hair gave way to black.  Myka still died her riot of curls but HG had given up several years ago, claiming that every grey hair was a badge of honor, proof that she defied the universe and fate itself by continuing to live. And - irritatingly - it only made her look more regal and distinguished. 

With a gentle click, Helena tipped her cup against Myka’s. 

“For remembrance,” they both said softly, looking out over the graveyard. 

It was their own private ritual. Once a year around this time, they - sometimes alone, sometimes with Pete and Claudia in attendance - remembered those that had been taken from them. 

Some - like Rebecca and Mrs. Frederic - were bittersweet, for both women had chosen to leave this life on their own terms, with no regrets. 

Some, like Artie and Christina, were wounds that would never truly heal. 

So they remembered. Sometimes silently, sometimes sharing stories, tears and laughter. The form was changing but the purpose constant. Once a year, Helena and Myka counted the cost of their lives. And every year, they looked at each other and silently knew that no matter how bitter the cost, it was worth it. 

Overhead the red-gold leaves continued to play their soft music while the two women sat and sipped their warm drinks, saying goodbye and giving thanks for one more year, and a hope of more to come. 

 

fin

 


	5. Maybe You’ve Heard Of Them…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> show canon verse; Myka gets arrested looking for an artifact. Castle can’t help but poke is nose where it doesn’t belong. Inspired by a tumblr post with screen caps from the episode of Castle where Jo played Lee Wax.

“I only help out the NYPD in my spare time. Actually, I’m a famous author.”

“Yeah? So is my girlfriend.”

Myka might have been mad at herself for her momentary lapse in professionalism, but if Detective Beckett’s earlier attitude was anything to go by…Richard Castle got under  _everyone’s_  skin.

 It was almost too rewarding to watch the (ok, Myka could admit it to herself, even if she’d _die_ before saying it out loud) ruggedly handsome writer struggle with  _that_  particular bit of information.  

What _was_ it with guys and lesbians anyway? 

Apparently his writer’s ego won out, however, and his next question was, “That so?” he wasn’t even trying to hide the joyful leer. “Anyone I’d know?” 

Oh how Myka wanted to wipe that smug smile off his face. 

And just at that moment - like a gift from the literary gods themselves - Myka heard a commotion outside the door and the familiar dulcet tones of Artie enraged. She’d probably never hear the end of it because her cover story  _had_  been lousy, but Myka had neutralized the artifact and getting her out of the clutches of the NYPD was _nothing_ compared to some of the bureaucratic nightmares she and Pete had caused for their boss in the past. 

“Oops, looks like my ticket out of here just arrived,” Myka smirked in return, watching the flicker of frustration mar Castle’s own smug expression. 

The brunette caught sight of Detective Beckett’s scowl before Artie gestured impatiently at his agent through the open interrogation room door and she stood to leave, shrugging on her jacket.

“Nice,” Castle, apparently not content to let it rest, tried to get in one more cheap shot. “So now you can walk away mysteriously and conveniently not have to admit you’re dating a wannabe no one’s ever heard of?” He said it lightly, but the words were meant to sting. 

Myka just laughed. 

“Oh Mr. Castle, even people who have never read her work know her name.” 

He stared at her and Myka had to give him credit, Castle seemed to know truth when he heard it. 

And the curiosity was clearly  _eating_ at him. 

“Ok fine. She’s famous. Who is it? Nancy Drew?”

Outside the interrogation room, Artie looked like a teapot about to boil over.

In all likelihood, Myka Bering and Richard Castle would never cross paths again.

It was too good an opportunity to pass up. 

“You _really_ wanna know?” Myka smiled slowly. 

Castle tried to play it cool for all of two seconds. “Yes.” 

Leaning down and crowding his personal space, Myka brushed her lips feather light against his cheek, knowing damn well he’d been eyeing her the entire time she’d been in custody. She let him squirm for half a second and then whispered three syllables.

Agent Bering sauntered out of the 12th’s interrogation room leaving a stunned “consultant writer” in her wake.  Ignoring Artie’s grumping, Myka held out her hand to Kate Beckett - the detective clearly still unhappy to have someone she considered a suspect walk out of her precinct. Still, the other woman’s handshake was firm. 

“Don’t worry detective, you’ll get your suspect.” 

Kate’s eyes narrowed briefly. Whatever the cop had been expecting, it clearly hadn’t been that. 

“How would you know?”

“Because you’re the best,” Myka said simply. She wasn’t exaggerating. She’d read Beckett’s file before the mission, knowing contact with the NYPD was likely and hearing that Det. Beckett had a “thing for the freaky ones.” 

“I’d like to return the compliment…” Beckett trailed off pointedly. 

Myka just smiled a little wistfully in return. It would be nice to have more female friends, but there was classified and then there was  _classified_ and she couldn’t risk being involved in Kate’s life. Instead she settled for a simple, “Good luck detective.”

And then because Myka knew what it was like to fall in love with the kind of person who thought rules were suggestions __other__ people should follow, she nodded in Castle’s direction. “Something tells me you’ll need it.” 

Kate rolled her eyes but Myka caught the hint of color staining her cheeks. The Agent did the Detective the courtesy of pretending she didn’t notice. 

“Are we done now? Can we go?” Artie’s grumble shattered the momentary camaraderie. 

Now it was Kate’s turn to laugh and Myka’s turn to roll her eyes.

The two Warehouse agents were almost to the elevator when Myka’s keen hearing caught Castle’s voice raised in child-like excitement. “H.G. Wells is a  _woman!_ It makes  _so much sense!_ And those Agents, Kate you can’t tell me you buy they were _just_ Secret Service agents. This is the  _best case_ _ever_ _!”_

The elevator door closed on Kate’s sarcastic reply. 

 

Fin

 

 


End file.
